A Different Sort of Bravery
by magentabear
Summary: His mother had been shocked when Peter owled home that he was sorted into Gryffindor. He’d always been a whiny little child. Never once stood up to a bully. But Peter was brave. Oh yes, he was braver than anyone knew.


Warning: There are guarded references to attempted suicide in this story. Please don't read if that will bother you.

This was originally posted at where it was expertly beta'd by professionalpixie. Let's all give her round a round of applause.

I realize there's some debate about which House Peter was sorted into, but I feel he must have been a Gryffindor. It's the only way he could have been such good friends with James and Sirius. Also, he doesn't seem smart enough for Ravenclaw and he _definitely_ doesn't seem loyal enough for Hufflepuff. So into Gryffindor he goes.

**A Different Sort of Bravery**

Peter ran. He ran as fast as his little rat legs could carry him. He ran with bugged-out eyes and quivering whiskers. He ran from that horrible shack, from the copy of James and from the werewolf he used to call a friend. But most of all he ran from Sirius' words. _"Then you should have died. Died like we would have done for you!"_ He ran from the truth, because the truth hurt like hell.

Peter didn't fool himself. He knew his legs, whether in rat or human form, could never truly save him. He would never run fast enough to escape his hell. That was the price he had paid so many years ago, and he would pay it again. It was the price of survival, and Peter _would_ survive this war. He would survive it if it cost him everything, because that's what a man did. He survived.

Peter twitched his nose, searching for a trail as he ran.

Peter wasn't without a conscience. And despite McGonagall's opinions, he wasn't an idiot. He had known he was doing the wrong thing when he met Macnair in the pub all those years ago. How could he not? Peter had read the paper, heard the rumours. He'd seen huddled conferences at the Head Table during dinner, and he'd felt that tremor—that horrible _glee_—run through the Slytherin table when Gideon and Fabian had been found. Later, Peter would meet the man who killed them, and he would bow before him. And a little after that, he would kiss the robes of that man's master.

No, Peter Pettigrew was not an idiot. He had known spying was a slap in the face of all he loved, and he had known he was damning himself to a life of misery when he offered up the Potters.

Peter didn't bother with love anymore. He'd tried it, and love had failed him. Or rather, he'd failed the people he loved. Not that there was a difference, really.

Still he ran. There was no light in the forest.

His mother had been shocked when Peter owled home that he was sorted into Gryffindor. He'd always been a whiny little child. Never once stood up to a bully. But Peter was brave. Oh yes, he was braver than anyone knew. He dared to live when he knew—knew with every fibre of his being—that he would hate his life.

Peter had stood on a ledge once, and it wasn't fear of death that stopped his jump. It was bravery; it was his rat-like form of bravery. Instead of jumping, he faced his demons and accepted his guilt.

A few hours later, James and Lily were killed. Peter never fooled himself about that night, never shirked his responsibility. He had killed them. He may not have said the curse, but he'd killed them.

Peter scrambled over twigs and leaves.

Long ago Peter had discovered he couldn't fight for the right side. It just wasn't in him. Peter didn't have Remus's sense of moral righteousness. He lacked James's flair and Sirius's edge. He didn't even have Lily's belief. Or maybe that wasn't it, but there was definitely _something_ he lacked. Something that was necessary to have the right kind of life. So Peter had accepted his fate and met Macnair in a pub.

Peter became one of the Dark Lord's most valuable spies that night, but he never really believed in the Dark Lord's cause. There was always that hesitation just before he passed on the information. There was always that voice (it sounded suspiciously like his mother) telling him to stop. Telling him he was wrong.

That voice almost killed Peter. It was that voice that drove him to the ledge. It had taken all his strength to quiet that voice, but he'd managed it. He'd stepped back from the ledge, and into the hell he'd created. Because, damn it, he wasn't _just_ a rat. He was a man, and he would deal with the hell he'd made of his life.

For Peter, bravery meant surviving despite the pain of living. It meant willingly doing the wrong thing, because the right side can't always win. It meant killing his best friends and dealing with the constant guilt.

Bravery was winning when he knew the prize would ruin him. And it _had_ ruined him. He was a half-starved rat, for God's sake. He was missing a finger. He was starving and short and bald and he was so damn _tired_. He was tired of being the odd man out, he was tired of being lonely, and he was tired of being wrong. He was tired of the mark on his arm. He was tired of nightmares; he was tired of apologizing to the ghosts he saw every night.

Peter splashed through a puddle. Only twenty minutes later, when he was resting under a gnarled root, did Peter realize how thirsty he was.

Life was funny sometimes. Peter hadn't killed his best friends so he could spend nearly fifteen years as a rat. That had not been the plan. It had been a simple plan: choose a side, make sure that side won, make sure the victor knew whom to thank for his win. It hadn't been complicated, and it certainly hadn't been noble, but it had been acceptable. Peter had known that as long as he had the strength to follow the plan, he would survive.

Peter set off running. It was time to resurrect the plan. He was done hiding, done waiting.

Peter wasn't going to let a little thing like being alone in the Forbidden Forest (in the world, he corrected himself) kill his plan. The fall of the Dark Lord was a hurdle, yes, but Peter had been through worse. He'd talked himself off a ledge when there was no good reason to stay alive. He had accepted his faults, betrayed his friends, and abandoned his mother. He could take on a bloody forest. Hell, he could take on anyone. Peter would kill the whole damn Ministry if he had to. What did he have to lose? He was already a murderer; he'd already damned himself.

Many years ago, Peter had made a choice. It hadn't been the right choice, but he had made it and he was going to follow it through. He was a servant of the Dark Lord, and he was going to find his master.

Peter ran through the darkness.


End file.
